


The Sword and the Spear

by MadameNope



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5586868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameNope/pseuds/MadameNope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Noxus and Demacia came perilously close to war, a small detachment of Noxian recruits was sent inside Demacian borders to instigate, reconnoiter and weaken the enemy’s backline. The Dauntless Vanguard, ever vigilant of trespassers, picked up the trail of the Noxian intruders. Three days after the plunder had begun in earnest, there was a battle. The Noxians lost. Our story begins as the Noxian captain wakes up in captivity after the battle...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_As Noxus and Demacia came perilously close to war, skirmishes intensified on both sides, and full-blown battles began to erupt. War drums on either side beat the marching cadence, recruits and reservists were called to fill the ranks, alliances were dully formed among hastily-drawn borders._

_A small detachment of Noxian recruits was sent inside Demacian territory to instigate, reconnoiter and weaken the enemy’s backlines. This particular detachment was led by a captain personally delegated by the general Darius. Her full name, though of some importance, will not be disclosed here for a while; for the purpose of the story, we will simply call her Ianna._

_The Dauntless Vanguard, ever vigilant of trespassers, picked up the trail of the Noxian intruders quickly enough._

_Three days after the plunder had begun in earnest, there was a battle._

_The Noxians lost._

_Those too stubborn to die, their captain among them, were taken to the nearby Fort Dawnguard, there to await trial for their crimes. As the only ranking officer to be captured alive, Ianna was given a solitary cell in the eastern tower and the questionable assistance of two reluctant battle-clerics who were there on disciplinary leave for having gotten drunk on the frontlines._

_Our story begins shortly after Ianna has awoken to discover her captivity and, worse, to receive a visit from the man who was instrumental in her capture. And, as will be seen, she will not take kindly to the news he brings._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on my own interpretation of the League of Legends universe and characters. It works on a slightly different timeline, in a universe where the League of Legends was never founded (because we know Riot did away with it last year) and various conflicts still rage throughout Valoran. It is my first attempt to post 'fic after a long time, so bear with me while I get back in the habit. Thank you for reading!

She barks a short, incredulous laugh. “You were hoping to _trade_ me?”

“A high-profile hostage such as yourself-“

“Is worth _nothing_ , you dimwit,” she cuts him off, her laughter sending more pain to bite at the wounds. “A captured Noxian is a dead Noxian. Soldier _or_ general, it makes no matter. If you can’t fight, Noxus doesn’t _need_ you.”

Garen’s lips press in a thin line. “We’ve already sent out demands,” he announces, his tone clipped.

Ianna cocks her head to one side. “I hope you weren’t friends with the messenger.”

Garen has heard enough, but still he refuses to leave. To do that would be to acknowledge defeat, a thing his pride would not allow. “You’re not making this any easier on yourself. If you cooperate…” He trails off. There’s not much he can offer, and his prisoner knows that too. Still, Ianna finds a petty joy in prolonging the conversation. It gives her mind something to occupy itself with.

There’s a strange contrast between them – him in full battle armor, polished to a sheen, his famed longsword at his side; her, bedridden, her left wrist bound to a ring in the stone wall with a long, rusty chain, her face and body covered in blood-stained bandages and ugly scars. The stark difference makes her chuckle even as she winces in pain.

“Bottom line – you saved my life thinking I was worth a damn, and you thought wrong.”

“All life is worth a damn,” he retorts mechanically. “Even yours.”

She scoffs. “Spare me your propaganda. Do you know how many of your men I killed before you finally took me down? I meant to keep count, but I lost track after the first dozen-“

Her voice breaks with the last word. She made a careless gesture with her free hand, grinding her fractured bones. Her vision clouds. Heated sparks dance in front of her eyes.

Garen senses this as an opportunity to beat a strategic retreat. “You’re in no shape to be questioned further,” he announces, heading for the door. “I will return tomorrow.”

But Ianna won’t see him again for days to come. Another will take his place – one far more versed in dealing with things the Noxian way.

~

When he arrives, Ianna’s condition has worsened. Her body is drenched in a cold sweat and she can’t stop a tremor in her right leg. Still, she welcomes the company. Her mind isn’t quite ready to wander down the murky road of who or what she is becoming.

Unlike Garen, this one acts far more at ease. He nods a greeting, then pulls up a chair and settles himself close to the bed, just out of her reach. With an inscrutable expression, he waits.

Their gazes lock. Ianna, however, is in no shape for a prolonged battle of wills. Eventually, she looks away, acquiescing defeat.  “What do you want?”

“Our messenger has returned.” His tone is devoid of any inflection, “tied to the saddle and a head shorter. We took it to mean our terms have been declined.”

“I told him so,” she mutters, trying to picture Garen’s reaction at having received the news.

His next words confirm her suspicions. “There will not be a second messenger. Demacia will march to war.”

 _I thought we **were** at war_ , she thinks, even though all the skirmishes up until now can hardly add up to that.

“Which raises the question of our Noxian prisoners. Normally, you would each be given a trial and judged in accordance with the severity of your crimes. However, present circumstances are forcing us to be more… expedient.”

He watches closely for a reaction, and is rewarded with a small start. The chain rattles against the headboard as she props herself up on one elbow. Her eyes are brilliant, feverish. “If I am to die, give me a sword. Let me die fighting.” She stops just short of saying, _Please_. The thought of being frogmarched to the headsman’s block like common rabble terrifies her more than she cares to admit. The silence stretches, seconds rolling into uncomfortable minutes. Her leg twitches under the covers.

“Your situation is… precarious,” he allows at last, shifting to cross his long legs. “Jarvan would have you executed along with the rest of the prisoners, but I feel such a course of action would not be prudent. I believe I can stay his hand, but I will need something from you in return.”

She stares at him, trying to discern what his intentions might be. His face seems to be carved out of stone. Her left hand coils around the chain, pulls it taut.

“You are the only officer we took alive. You have information-“

She cuts him off with a derisive snort. “You want me to betray my _general_?”

“I offer you a chance to live.”

If she knew his name, she would curse it out loud. “You’d never let me walk out of here, we both know that. Am I to stay here as your prisoner, then? How long will your princeling suffer me? A week? A month? The outcome would be the same in the end.”

For the first time, he hesitates. “Amnesty… is another matter.” He chooses his words carefully. “It is premature to discuss it.”

“There won’t _be_ any discussing. The answer is no.”

He seems to have expected it. The chair creaks as he stands. “Your answer still has time to change. I will return tomorrow.”

Ianna turns her back as he raps on the door, calling a guard to unlock it. In part, it is a show of defiance – but mostly, she doesn’t want him to see her tears. The manacle has cut deep into her skin.

~

The next day, the executions begin.

The chain is too short to allow her to reach the barred window, but there’s no mistaking the sounds that drift on the wind. Shouts, pleas and curses weave together in sinister harmony, punctured by the rhythmic thud of the headsman’s axe. It goes on all morning and most of the afternoon, leaving her utterly devoid of appetite. The trays containing the sparse breakfast and lunch she is being allowed return untouched.

A pair of battle clerics visit her briefly to wash her wounds and dress them anew. A soothing balm is applied over her left wrist, with a clean bandage on top of it. She sits still through the indignity of it all, her lips pressed and her shoulders squared, suppressing any sign of distress despite the inevitable pain.

In the evening, she spies a thick column of black smoke rising high into the darkening skies. The wind carries some of it to her cell, and the scent leaves no doubt in her mind: they’ve begun burning the bodies. Later, her customary visitor finds her tugging uselessly at the metal ring embedded in the wall, the bandage over her left wrist soaked with fresh blood.

“If you wanted the chains removed, you had but to ask,” he remarks, settling himself in the same chair as before.

She remains standing. “Go to hell.”

He produces a key out of a pocket. Her eyes are immediately drawn to it. Being allowed the liberty of her cell isn’t much, but it’s better than being chained to the wall. She throws him a questioning glance, eyebrows raised. Sensing the unspoken inquiry, he nods. “But first – a question. We know Darius left behind several companies to close off the Stygian Pass after he won the battle at Lake Point. How many men?”

Her body stiffens. She knows the answer – four companies, a little over one thousand men, more than enough to hold the pass and a sizeable foothold on the Demacian side. The pass itself can be guarded with far less than that, but the hills around it are treacherous and the ones left outside can be easily taken unaware.

“Two thousand.” The lie comes easily. Demacian scouts have most likely ascertained that their enemies number in the thousands, so it’s not like she’s _betraying_ anything. Maybe this will even deter an outright attack. She doubts he has the manpower to topple that.

He looks her in the eye, a slight frown creasing his brow. The number is slightly larger than he’d expected, but not by much. That’s good enough for now. He stands and walks to her, tread measured, eyes never leaving her face.

She flattens herself against the wall and lowers her eyes, an ostentatious gesture of submission. In truth, she ponders if she might be able to strangle him with the chain as soon as he comes within reach. She quickly decides against it. The door is locked, and there’s an entire garrison full of Demacian soldiers beyond it. She would have nowhere to go.

He stops in front of her and holds out his hand. Wordlessly, she extends her mangled wrist. A moment later, the manacle slides off, and the torn bandage with it.

“I will send for a cleric,” he announces.

She feels a strong urge to punch him. “If you think this means I’m going to kiss your feet…”

“I understand your defiance,” he says firmly, “but it will bring you nothing. The sooner you realize that-”

“And what would my submission bring?” she asks, clenching her fist. “You said it yourself – I’ll never walk out of here. If you will give me neither freedom nor death, then what’s the point?”

His brows knit together. “Your situation could be far worse. You were given this cell due to your rank, but if you persist in this rashness, you will find yourself regretting it.”

She hears the threat, ignores it. “If you were half a man, you’d give me a sword and let _that_ do the talking.”

He takes a step back, making her realize just how uncomfortably close he’d been standing. “The cleric will be with you shortly. I will return… tomorrow.”

She glares daggers at his retreating back, and as soon as the heavy door closes behind him she throws herself on the bed, buries her face in her musty blanket and howls with rage.

~

The sun has barely risen when the executions begin anew, cutting her restless sleep short. Her right knee is throbbing and she feels cold, the one blanket far too thin to shield her from the chill of the dawn. She crawls out of bed and begins to pace, working her stiff joints loose one by one. Eventually, she drifts to the window, and even though she tells herself she doesn’t want to see, it isn’t long before she finds herself peering through the bars, craning her neck this way and that in search of the macabre spectacle outside.

She finds it quickly enough. A long line of barefoot prisoners winds away to the left and out of sight. Their hands are bound crudely with lengths of rope. Some who are limping badly are allowed to lean on makeshift canes. Predictably, the line ends with the execution block. She can’t discern the details from such a distance, but she can’t miss the hole in the ground where fresh corpses are already piling on top of the ashes of yesterday’s condemned. Her stomach gives a painful lurch. So much for the vaunted Demacian justice. A Noxian company would never stoop so low. There’s a _reason_ Noxians are taught never to take prisoners.

Her captor arrives with the guard who comes to take the breakfast tray away. He notes in passing that the food is untouched, then settles himself in his customary chair. Ianna remains seated at the table, equal parts annoyed by her presence and grateful for the company, which can only be more pleasant than her thoughts.

Their gazes lock, hold. This time, Ianna doesn’t let herself be conquered so easily. The battle of wills drags on for minutes. Absurdly, she finds a smile tug at the corners of her lips. This is anything but _amusing_.

“It has been decided that I will lead the assault on Stygian Pass,” he informs her at length, leaning back, hands in his lap, the very picture of nonchalance. Only his eyes betray his alertness. “Scouts tell me part of the garrison has already moved on. I expect a reasonably swift victory.”

Her mind digests the implications. If he expects to go against an army of two thousand, he’s like to take just as many men, and since his forces here aren’t enough, this will weaken the front elsewhere. And then, the Pass itself is notoriously easy to defend. Victory will not be as swift or easy as he expects. Suddenly, her smirk has found its reason. “I hope someone sticks your head on a spear,” she chimes, and she means it from the bottom of her heart.

He shrugs elegantly, letting the taunt slide. “I cannot tell how long I’ll be away, and I cannot promise your safety once I’m gone,” he continues, his tone unfazed. “Jarvan has agreed to stay your execution – _for now_. I’ve convinced him to allow you to come with me.”

For the second time in as many days, she gapes at him, momentarily stunned. “You – _what_?” Her thoughts are racing. Once out there, she can finally plot her escape. Darius is known to send out scouting parties far ahead of the main column. If one of them happens to spot the approaching Demacians, if he _recognizes_ her…

No. She can’t allow herself to hope. Her nails dig deep into her palms. _Hope is poison_. Out loud, she says, “Was I not clear enough when I said I won’t betray him?”

Unflinching, he replies, “We shall see.”

With that, the brief, unsettling visit comes to an end.

~

She spends the rest of the day in restless thought, pacing her cell with feverish steps. At one point she walks to the window, testing the bars. Despite the thin film of rust that covers them, they prove to be sturdy enough. And even if she could remove them, her window is high off the ground and too narrow to ever hope to pass through.

At noon, she forces down some food even though everything tastes like ash. She needs her strength, she tells herself, for whatever is to come. As the shadows lengthen, she catches herself glancing wistfully towards the door more than a few times. Strange as it may be, she has grown somewhat accustomed to her Demacian captor and his visits. Her mind still churns with unwritten scenarios. Will he carry her into the thick of battle? Unlikely – but then, with most of his party distracted by the confrontation, an opportunity to escape will surely present itself… though for the moment, all this is little more than wishful thinking.

Still – he has shown her some measure of compassion where a Noxian would have shown none. He certainly didn’t have to unchain her, but he did it nevertheless. She remembers how close they’d been, how much care he’d taken not to aggravate her self-inflicted would any further. He’d smelled of horses and leather and upturned earth – strong, honest scents that lingered long after he was gone. A Noxian in the same position would have carried a much fouler odor. For some reason, the comparison makes her smile.

Dinner finds her in slightly better spirits. She wolfs down everything, only now realizing just how hungry she’d been. She even has half a mind to inquire about her visitor, but in the end she refrains from it, doubting that the morose guard would indulge her curiosity either way. What she doesn’t know is that Xin Zhao has left the garrison shortly after their encounter, gone off to confer with his sovereign at another fort, and his unannounced leave of absence will have consequences for several parties involved.

~

The next day, doubts begin to creep back into her mind like so many maggots writhing underneath the skin. The realities of her current predicament tear at her conscience, fangs sunken deep. Without Noxus, what is there left to be? She has been serving the city-state for as long as she can remember. Her loyalties, adamant until a few days ago, are starting to shake on their pedestal.

By Noxian law, any combatant who allows themselves to be taken is either a traitor or a weakling, and deserving nothing but contempt and an inglorious death. The unfairness of it all disgusts her. She didn’t _allow_ herself to be taken so much as collapse from trauma, blood loss and sheer exhaustion after battling for what felt like ages. If she hasn’t met a heroic demise on the battlefield, it’s not for want of trying.

Despair lurks like an abysmal pit at the back of her mind, and several times it threatens to drown her thoughts completely. Being captured was shameful enough, but death by execution would be the pinnacle of humiliation. The thuds outside have stopped – mercifully, at long last – but she can’t help but wonder how many prisoners there had been. It feels like hundreds. The thought that she might end like them makes her feverish with helplessness and rage.

In the small hours of morning, when exhaustion finally overwhelms her inner maelstrom, the passing is so sudden and so absolute that for a brief, terrifyingly lucid moment, she sees her body twitching on the chopping block while her head rolls away. Though she may not know it yet, deep down, she has already resolved to do whatever it takes to avoid such an undignified end.

~

Ianna wakes up to shuffled footsteps, a shouted conversation and the jingle of keys. Half-asleep, she crouches under the covers and strains to distinguish what is being said. The words “prisoner”, “orders” and “last one” drift from the rest. A chill rattles her to the bone. What is going on?

The key turns in the lock. The door groans on its hinges. Two distinct sets of footsteps in precise military cadence set her teeth on edge. The covers are yanked unceremoniously aside. Torchlight makes her squint, and she can hardly distinguish the features of her assailants. One is a man of imposing stature, the other a woman. Both are wearing plate armor that further reflects the light. The woman’s hand rests on the hilt of her sword.

Ianna draws herself back, like a snake ready to strike. “What do you want?”

“Come with us,” the woman says curtly.

As Ianna’s eyes begin to adjust to the light, she sees that the man also carries a length of rope and finally puts two and two together. “ _No!_ ”

Unlike her previous visitors, these two waste no time with words. Ianna dives for the sword, knowing it to be her only chance, but her wrist is caught in a vice grip before she can even touch the hilt. The woman twists her arm painfully, oblivious of the punches she rains down with the other one, and in a matter of seconds her wrists are tied behind her back. The rest is a matter of dignity; she can either walk out of the cell on her own, or afford herself to be dragged away. With her last shred of self-control, she chooses the former.

Her injured leg turns out to be a blessing in disguise. As she hobbles awkwardly between the two guards, descending the tower steps one cautious step at a time, she begins to fumble at the rope that holds her wrists together. It’s hard enough to tie a sturdy knot even if the prisoner isn’t struggling, and she put up as much of a fight as she was able to. She grinds her wrists, fingers probing at odd angles, teeth ground against the onslaught of pain from the cracked bones in her left forearm. Little by little, the knot comes undone.

There’s no line of prisoners greeting her as they exit the tower, and the realization sends a flutter of terror through her chest. The sky above is impossibly serene, painted in blues, purples and azures; dawn comes. The walk to the headsman’s block feels impossibly short. Her movements become frantic, not caring if the guards will notice. Almost… _almost_ …

Rough hands push her down, force her to kneel. The ground is soft and wet; not with rainwater, she realizes with mounting horror, but with blood. Gauntleted fingers dig deep into her shoulder, shoving her forward. Her heart is pounding incessantly in her ears. She tugs at the rope with every ounce of strength she has left, bile rising in her throat as her neck comes in contact with the slick wooden block.

The hand that holds her down pulls back. Ianna doesn’t stop to _think_ ; she turns around, lightning-quick, and slams her shoulder into the hooded man whose broadsword is already raised high. The impact dazes her, but more importantly, it buys her the precious few seconds she needs. She sidesteps the executioner and dashes forward. The knot finally loosens enough for her to free her right wrist, then her left. She whirls around just in time to see one of the guards – the man – begin to charge, then slip on the blood-soaked ground. His sword flies from his grip.

Ianna dashes forward at the same time as the other guard, but she isn’t impended by any armor. She reaches the sword first. Her fingers close around the hilt and she pulls back with several quick steps, putting some distance between herself and the female guard.

The executioner looks on, his broadsword sticking up from the earth, his elbows resting lightly on the hilt, as if he finds himself above all this. The male guard regains his footing while his comrade eyes Ianna up and down through her visor, assessing the situation. She holds a pointed one-handed sword, while Ianna has acquired a greatsword. Even wearing plate armor and fighting two against one, the matchup is not ideal.

Ianna has no doubt now that they’ll kill her even if she bests these two. The guards patrolling the ramparts above have already taken interest in the scene, and surely they must be carrying crossbows. For the first time in countless days, she feels unbridled elation course through her veins. Here, at last, is her chance to die like a true Noxian, sword in hand.

A horseman emerges from the end of the courtyard to their left, where the drawbridge is. Ianna observes him out of the corner of her eye. He seems to be putting the spurs to his mount, gaining increasing speed. The guards hesitate, and even the headsman stops hunching over the tool of his trade and jerks it out of the ground.

A greatsword, fearsome a weapon as it may be, is no match for charging cavalry, but Ianna holds her ground. Her abused wrists scream with the weight, her knee is throbbing, but she hardly feels anything now. Her feet seem to be riveted in place. She wants to laugh, but finds that even her face feels frozen. A coward’s hope takes root, then blooms: _I hope this will be over quickly_.

But rather than trample her, the horseman stops between her and the guards, pulling on the reins so fiercely that the pitch-black courser rears up and neighs in protest. The knight jumps out of the saddle. Sensing its burden has been lightened, the courser trots away, reins dragging on the ground.

“What is happening here?” the knight bellows.

As the guards babble about how they were ordered to execute every last Noxian prisoner before the march, Ianna laughs out loud, a strange mixture of relief and dread coursing through her veins like wildfire. In this knight, in this horseman covered head to toe in dust and mud and only the good gods above know what else, she recognizes her Demacian visitor. He turns to her, brows furrowed, eyes resting on her greatsword.

Sensing what he is about to demand, she shakes her head and mouths the word, “No.” If this is to be the end, then gods be damned if she’ll allow herself to be slaughtered like a cow.

“Whatever order has led to this, I did not give it,” he says while, behind him, the guards stand at attention like twin statues clad in plate.

She shakes her head wildly, but her voice is clear, steady. “Let’s settle this like warriors. I have a sword. You can choose any weapon you like.” As an afterthought, and not because she feels particularly inclined to taunt him, she adds, “Unless you’re afraid. You can send your oaf to fight for you, I don’t mind.”

His lips press in a grim line. He would prefer to do this another way, but he doesn’t wish to prolong this spectacle any longer. Eyes never living hers, he holds out his left hand in a wordless command.

Someone presses a pommel into his outstretched palm. He eyes his newly-acquired weapon and can’t suppress a grimace. Though he favors spears and polearms, this time, it would seem, he will have to make do with a one-handed sword. Assuming a light stance, he waits.

Ianna is determined to end this quickly as well. Though her wrists are raw and bruised and her left leg is all but useless now, the corners of her lips turn upward. Not because she entertains any hope of living through this, but because this way, at least, she can have a beautiful death.

The first clash sends a shock through her arms and she nearly loses her grip on the sword. Hastily, she steps back and parries a sudden lunge. Rather than press the attack, he retreats half a pace, sword raised in a parrying stance. The expected attack never comes. Instead, she crouches low and makes a slash at his legs. He leaps away untouched.

Their swords meet again and he parries the blow, unflinching. Their blades weave back and forth until Ianna realizes what he’s doing: rather than come at her with his full strength, he lets her throw herself at him until her own strength is spent. He has no intention to press the attack until he can be certain he will deal a killing blow. This only makes her assault him with renewed determination, hoping to provoke him into a reckless act that might end this. Her efforts prove utterly futile.

Arms shaking, every breath burning in her chest, she draws back. Her eyes alone scream defiance; the rest of her body has already betrayed her. She falls to one knee, leaning heavily on her sword, her legs no longer able to support her weight.

He closes the distance between them, sword raised. With a supreme effort of will, she keeps from flinching when she feels the cold steel of his sword touch her throat. She makes herself look at him, at this man who bested her, and conjures a defiant smirk. Unbidden, a single tear rolls out of the corner of her eye, down her grime-stained cheek. Hoarsely, she whispers, “Finish it.”

He throws the sword aside, then holds out his hand.

Years later, Ianna will remember this as the moment when everything _changed_.

~

The rest of the day goes by in a blur. An iron tub is brought up and she is allowed to bathe, a feat she accomplishes mechanically. When she is finished, clean clothes await her and she is even allowed a comb and mirror. At the end of it, she looks little and less like the prisoner she is supposed to be, and feels… nothing.

As the sun begins to dip under the horizon, he finds her fast sleep on the bed, still clutching the mirror in one hand. At the sound of his footsteps, her eyes open and she regards him with something akin to child-like curiosity. Their eyes hold for a few moments, then she goes back to sleep.

He doesn’t wake her again.


	3. Chapter 3

They’ve been traveling for a day and half the night, and now the second day is coming to an end, the sun descending ahead, making Ianna squint against the strong light. She was allowed a horse for the journey and made to ride close to the vanguard, where she can answer to any summons quickly enough. Her arms are chained at the wrists, but the chain is long enough to allow some measure of comfort, and the manacles are thin, elegant silver rather than iron or dull copper. She resents them either way.

The first night, she was given a small tent in the vicinity of the command post, and a guard to watch over her. She slept with one eye open, starting at every sound, tensing whenever she heard footsteps draw close. She was almost grateful for the chain then, because a chain was something she could use to defend herself if need be. Now, staring at the small links, she imagines herself strangling someone with it.

This morning, she finally learned the name of her Demacian captor. To her surprise, it was a name she’d often heard mentioned at High Command, usually followed by a string of curses. Xin Zhao is a man who has been frustrating the Noxian military to no end, in no small part because he is said to have learned his arms in a Noxian fighting pit. She doesn’t know whether that’s true or not and, for the time being, doesn’t really care to find out.

The countryside rolls past them, miles upon miles of grassy hillsides and narrow trickles of water broken by the occasional waterfall. The armored column hosts three hundred horse and nearly two thousand foot. A river of brass, silver and Demacian blue winds through an ample valley, their advance barely slowed by the muddy terrain. The few villages they pass look strangely peaceful in spite of the war. Ianna doesn’t envy their peace. Eventually, they too will be purged for the weaklings they are. It’s not a question of _if_ , but _when_.

A sharp prod with the butt of a spear disturbs her thoughts. She looks up to find her guard gesturing for her to move towards the front. She has been summoned.

“I’m being told more Noxian troops are leaving the pass,” Xin begins without preamble. “Where are they going?”

She ponders the question, biting her lower lip. To her knowledge, there aren’t any objectives worth taking nearby. The hills are barren, the mountains too steep and inhospitable for a durable foothold, and the settlements aren’t even worth bringing up. The only other thing that comes to mind is the fort where she was held, but the only way to get to it would be through the same valley the Demacian column is now occupying. “No idea,” she answers with a shake of her head. “Unless they got bored and went to look for something to kill. That’s what _I’d_ do. We don’t like to sit around waiting for the enemy to show up.”

Xin frowns, and she realizes her _faux pas_. “If they were ordered to hold the pass, they’ll hold it,” she adds quickly, “but they can do that with just a handful of men. You can’t expect to take it in one fell swoop, and while you’re busy fighting the ones at the front, the ones who left can double back and hit your troops from behind.”

His frown deepens and he dismisses her with a gesture. Thoughtful, Ianna lets her horse be led to her customary place in the advance. The more thought she gives their current predicament, the more she realizes that there’d be no point in waiting until the enemy is knocking at the gates, so to speak. The troops who left might just as well be setting up for an ambush even now.

She looks up, half-expecting to see the first riders crest the hills around them. The column is spread out and vulnerable; with the sun in their face, this would be the ideal time and place to strike.

But the proffered ambush doesn’t come, and soon the sun dips below the horizon and the column stops to make camp for the night. Long after midnight, Ianna finds herself lying wide awake, listening closely for any sounds out of place. Despite the calm that surrounds the camp, the idea of an attack has wormed its way deep into her mind.

With barely a few hours to go ‘til morning, she finally slips into an agitated sleep. She dreams herself back in Noxus, but rather than the triumphant homecoming any officer returning from battle would be given, she is taken away in chains, questioned, tortured. Above all looms the face of her former general, the man she’d have gladly given her life for. _Why did you turn against Noxus_? he asks, his lips immobile, his deathly pale features spattered with blood. _Why did you betray me?_ he asks, and she doesn’t want to think, to feel, to _be_.

~

Dawn brings another day of long, tedious marching, but Ianna is grateful for the slow pace. She dozes in the saddle, too exhausted to dream. Meanwhile, the air around her thrums with barely-contained anticipation. Another day will bring the column within sight of the enemy.

Twice, Ianna is called to Xin’s side, questioned, then summarily dismissed. She answers him truthfully every time, even as her stomach curls with disgust. She should have let herself be killed when she had the opportunity – impale herself on his sword, if need be – rather than be made to suffer this indignity. Even as she thinks it, however, part of her _knows_ that this was the only choice she could make. She put her life in his hands, and he gave it right back. She still doesn’t know how to feel about that.

After they stop to make camp for the night, she is summoned again to his tent, and once she arrives everyone else is dismissed. He asks her the same questions, pores over the answers, follows the troop movements she suggests on a map with a thoughtful frown. He looks her in the eye when she speaks, not with suspicion, but with a disarming frankness. His quiet confidence assuages her fears somewhat, and once she is dismissed she rests easier for a while.

For his part, Xin feels that there’s something amiss even as the scouts assure him to the contrary. He circles the camp once, checks with the sentinels at their posts, careful not to let any of his doubts show. His tent, though spacious by military standards, feels entirely too small. As the camp quiets down around him, he stands up and begins to pace. As those who know him can well attest, he isn’t a man who takes kindly to inaction. Tonight, he will not sleep. Which is all the same, because his troops aren’t about to have much rest, either.

~

Ianna wakes after midnight, feeling her body sore all over. She was never an adept horsewoman, and the last two days in the saddle have taken their toll. Adding to her misery, her older wounds are yet to heal fully, and her knee in particular throbs with concerning intensity. The manacles around her wrists gnaw at her nerves. Earlier, she meant to ask Xin to remove them, but she thought better of it. He has already seen her beg once; she won’t allow him the satisfaction twice.

Underneath her annoyance, something else stirs, deeper and more visceral, a sentiment that should have been stamped out of her heart a long time ago: she fears. Not for her life, as Xin has made it clear she gets to keep it for now. Not for her safety, because Demacians aren’t known to treat their prisoners with unnecessary cruelty. Her fear has no real object, which makes it all the more infuriating. She tugs at the chain that binds her wrists, testing each link, but the supple metal holds. The manacles are too small for her to slip her hands through, and she has nothing to pick the lock with. Groaning in frustration, she curls up in a tight ball, batting the unsettling thoughts away.

Sleep sneaks on her with sinister precision. One moment she lies awake, staring at the ground; the next, she blinks back dust and the roar of ten thousand voices overwhelms her.

A look around is all it takes to recognize the place: this is the Fleshing Arena, where Draven stages his flashy executions. She finds herself in the middle of one of his grisly spectacles. The crowd cheers while, all around her, faceless prisoners are being mowed down with extreme prejudice. Their screams make her want to cover her ears, but her arms are bound tightly and she finds that her legs refuse to move. Transfixed, she watches the Glorious Executioner saunter closer, axes whirling, death written in his eyes.

Her scream as the axe bites deep into her flesh is drowned by the cry of ten thousand voices roused into a frenzy. She staggers back, blood pouring from the wound, and suddenly it isn’t Draven but Darius who stands in front of her. _Why did you turn against Noxus?_ he asks, hefting his great axe. _Why did you betray me?_

It takes her a while to realize that the screams she hears are real.

~

Later, in the aftermath of the battle, what has transpired will become readily apparent. Vastly outnumbered and with little hope to defend the flat terrain outside the pass, the Noxians sent half their forces in a wide arc around the advancing Demacian column to attack them from behind, as Ianna has correctly predicted. Their original intention was to engage the enemy once the battle was joined at the pass. However, the officer in charge of the attack was an impatient man, like most of his countrymen, and thus decided to strike at the Demacians while they slumbered instead.

And so it is that the attack comes in the small hours of morning, with devastating results. By the time the Demacians realize what is happening, a sizeable portion of the camp is already burning. To further confusion, the Noxians aren’t wearing any distinctive marks. Many times before the night is done, friends will stab friends and enemies will walk through the camp unhindered.

Ianna, however, knows only that all hell sounds like it’s breaking loose, and judging from the clanking of steel against steel raging outside, the fighting seems to have reached all the way to the heart of the camp. She parts the tent flaps a fraction and peers outside. Her surroundings, at least, seem quiet. The soldier who is supposed to guard her is nowhere to be seen. A gross oversight – one that she would be foolish not to take advantage of. Before she has time to change her mind, she slips outside and vanishes among the tents.

_It seemed like a good idea at the time_ , she will say years from now, when telling the story. And it _seems_ like a good idea, until she finds herself face to face with an axe-wielding Noxian berserker and she remembers that she still has no weapons, and her hands are still bound.

The Noxian charges. Ianna side-steps him nimbly and the momentum carries her opponent well past her and battering into the tent. Rather than wait for him to get his bearings, she sprints ahead. She hears a great crash behind her, then shouts, then nothing. She doesn’t stop to ascertain what happened. There is no cowardice in it, she tells herself as she rounds a larger tent, her heart pounding in her throat. That was simply an unfair, uneven fight.

_A sword_ , she thinks feverishly. _Need a sword_. Or a spear. An axe. _Anything_. At the moment, she’d even settle for a fisherman’s dirk.

Preoccupied as she is, she rounds a corner and nearly stumbles into the arms of another Noxian ambusher. They size each other up for what seems like an eternity. His features are thin, aristocratic, his expression impossibly calm. She takes a step back, feels her back collide with something soft. Another tent.  Her eyes dart frantically from side to side. There’s nowhere to go. She’s trapped.

The Noxian’s sword swings up in a lazy arc, then crashes down with uncanny speed. She knows she can’t dodge fast enough this time. Instinctively, her hands shoot up, chain held taut between them, and the blade strikes the chain dead in the middle. Through sheer luck, a challenging shout bellows somewhere behind his enemy, resulting in a momentary distraction. Ianna wraps the chain around the bloodied steel and tugs with all her strength.

If the motion was meant to disarm him, it fails. It does, however, manage to throw him off-balance for a second, but now the chain is tangled with the blade and her wrists are sending white-hot flashes of pain that explode behind her eyes, their skin scraped raw.

A shrill cry pierces the air.

The bloody tip of a sword sticks out of the Noxian’s chest. He topples forward, dead before he hits the ground. Another silhouette emerges from behind, clutching the weapon that fell the assailant. Through the hazy mist clouding her eyes, Ianna spies wisps of white, silver and Demacian blue. Relief steals over her before she realizes that this is not the man she’d been looking for.

He stands tall, clad in armor from neck to boot, plate glimmering where it hasn’t been touched by blood. Blonde hair, blue eyes – he isn’t someone she knows. She dives for the sword the slain Noxian just dropped, but her unlikely savior proves to be faster. Then, rather than assault her, he takes the recovered weapon by the blade and offers her the hilt.

She blinks back her confusion and accepts the sword, finding it a lot lighter than she expected. Before she can thank the Demacian, he is already walking away, his long stride carrying him back towards the thick of the battle.

Ianna doesn’t follow. Cowardice it may be, but she’s seen enough fighting for one night. Before she knows it, her steps are already carrying her towards the command tent, her mind having rightfully ascertained that right now, Xin’s side is probably the safest place to be.

~

Dawn is on the verge of breaking when a battle-weary Xin finally stumbles his way back to his tent. The fighting died down a while ago, but that left the unenviable task of sorting through the dead to determine the exact number of casualties on either side. Xin himself organized the men who would do it and spent some time assisting them. The number of Noxian casualties is already startling and the count has yet to conclude. This softens the blow somewhat, but he still berates himself for having allowed this attack to happen, even though part of him knows that he did everything within his power to prevent it.

A short while earlier, another disturbing fact came to light. Some of the scouts returning from the field late last night were not the same men that had left the camp. The logical conclusion is that they were captured and summarily executed, after which their garments were passed to Noxian infiltrators. That no-one in the Demacian camp noticed that is aggravating. An irrational sense of guilt hounds his every step. All he wants is to lie down and let sweet oblivion erase the horrors of the night, in order to be better able to deal with the aftermath of the carnage when he wakes.

The inside of the tent is dark, the candle stub he lit after midnight long since spent on the wooden table heavy with maps and missives. A sixth sense makes him stop at the entrance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up in alarm.

A raspy chuckle sounds from the dark. “Took you long enough. I was beginning to fall asleep.”

The voice registers as belonging to his prisoner even as his eyes adjust to the gloom enough to make out her form, sitting cross-legged on the edge of his sleeping cot. A bloodied sword rests across her knees, but she makes no move to lift it. Her wrists are unbound.

“I looked around until I found the key,” she adds, as if sensing his discovery. “I hope you don’t mind.”

The first shafts of sunlight pierce the gloom outside. One slithers inside the tent, casting everything in a thin golden sheen. He finally sees her clearly enough to notice the ugly gash that starts at the corner of her left eye and disappears into the hairline. The eye itself is closed, and half-dried rivulets of blood have sealed it shut.

He takes a step towards her, surveying the damage with the eye of someone who is well-accustomed to seeing such things in the aftermath of battle. Her clothes sport several tears and gashes, with red blood bubbling underneath. One in particular, across her left thigh, looks severe. Her apparent nonchalance can’t quite conceal her grimace of pain, nor the beads of sweat on her brow.

“What, this?” She forces a laugh. His prolonged silence unnerves her. “Nothing but Noxian blood, I promise you.”

His eyes narrow in suspicion. Her presence here makes little and less sense, but her injuries look severe enough to require immediate attention. He warns her to stay where she is, then storms outside. Finally, he understands.

_Nothing but Noxian blood_.

He bites down a curse.

Finding a battle cleric in the chaos outside would be a difficult endeavor even without the pounding migraine that builds up inside his skull. When he does find one, he needs his full authority to drag him away from where other wounded men are being treated, even though he doesn’t appear to do anything at the moment. By the time they return to the tent, the sun has risen well above the horizon, and Ianna has fallen asleep.

The cleric crouches down next to the cot, reaching out to shake her awake. Her chest is rising and falling, but she doesn’t stir. There’s blood pooled around her, and some of it is fresh. The cleric sees this, opens his mouth to argue that she might be beyond his abilities, then thinks better than to risk his commander’s wrath. He makes an unhappy noise, then grimly sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never got around to posting any of this! Oops :3


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